Page 78 of Heart of the Summer Queen

The laughter of the drunkards echoes through the creaky floorboards. As well as the banging of ale mugs. Someone shouting as they lose at cards. Persistent though the noise is, I’m glad for it. Silence would be far worse. I doubt I’d be brave enough to even breathe.

I’m unsure how long I lie there before I realize that while my body might be exhausted, my mind is wide awake.

Blearily, I trace the dancing shadows and the sliver of light cutting beneath the door. The dim rays paint a sprawling rectangle across the beam ceiling.

But staring into the darkness does nothing to dull my mind. Sleep remains elusive. And now I’m becoming increasingly aware of my feet swelling in my boots. The leather pinching my toes.

I know I should lie here until sleep finds me, but words bubble on my tongue. I hold them in as long as I can, but then they’re boiling over and—

“Are you awake?” I whisper into the void, immediately regretting speaking. I should have stayed quiet. Should havepretended to be asleep. This incident of sharing a bed would have passed, and everything would have been fine in the morning. While sailing to Eruweth, we’d be focused on our quest to slay Isidore.

No response immediately follows. I dearly hope he’s asleep.

But that wish is dashed as he says, “I am.”

I force myself to think of something to say. Anything.

“Does it still hurt?” I manage.

“Hmm?” comes his reply, the sound rumbling across my pillow.

“The Irremisa potion,” I say.

“A little.”

“Oh.” I pull my blanket to my chest.”Well, I hope it hurts less in the morning.”

Then silence. Again.

Embarrassment courses through me, and I consider pulling my blanket even further over me until it covers my face. It’s an inviting thought, but then Elaric will know how much sharing a bed is bothering me.

I close my eyes and try again to sleep, to banish all worries from my mind. But my thoughts are so invasive and won’t leave me alone. Minutes later, I end up saying, “Elaric?”

“Yes, Adara?”

My throat tightens. What I want to ask is on the very tip of my tongue, but it’s as if my vocal cords have ceased to work.

If I ask my question, it might make it true.

“What is it?” The bed shifts as he rolls onto his side. I don’t turn to look. If I do, I’ll find myself face to face with him, just a flimsy pillow between us.

“Do...” I start but my voice breaks. I grit my teeth and force it to come out steady. If I don’t ask my question now, I never will. “Do you hate me?”

He’s quiet. My heart beats so loudly I’d be surprised if he doesn’t hear it.

“Why do you ask?”

Bile rises to my throat. Him asking me that is as good as him saying yes, he hates me. And why shouldn’t he? Everything I’ve done deserves his hatred, not his forgiveness. I know this, and yet I’ve allowed myself to hope for otherwise.

Though the truth hurts, I’m glad I asked. Maybe with enough time, my foolish heart will discard the feelings it still clings to.

“No reason,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can.

“Adara.” The pillow behind me disappears, and he’s grabbing my shoulder, pulling me toward him.

I’m hurting so much I yield without thought, and then I’m lying on my back, staring up at him.

“Why do you think I hate you?” His voice is a growl.

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